


Try Not to Get Attached, Joel

by faeverett



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: 5+1 Things, Ellie & Joel - Freeform, TLOU, can't fight it can't hide it, he tries to deny them but we all know that doesn't work, i have feelings about joel's protective crouch next to ellie, joel is a father first and foremost, so he does too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeverett/pseuds/faeverett
Summary: Joel's pressed himself into one thing for the past twenty years. He's worked so hard to be closed off. And yet, when he finds himself shielding her with his own body, he has to face the facts: his inner dad is ready to be unleashed.
Relationships: Ellie & Joel (The Last of Us)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 156





	Try Not to Get Attached, Joel

The first time, it happened on accident.

He’d known her for all of five hours and he’d spent a good portion of those asleep. He was already having some trouble swallowing the tendrils of fondness and heaps of regret, but then she had revealed her unbelievable news and doubt crept up too. If he’d known what else she’d dredge up, he’d have tried a little harder to get out of the whole job.

But as it was, with the searchlight swinging around and the soldiers on the hunt, he was in too much of a rush to consider all the reasons not to do it. The space was tight, Tess was waving them over, and he aimed for the place next to her. The kid beat him to it, by a fraction of a second. He barely kept himself from crashing into her, extending an arm over her tiny frame to catch his weight on the cover.

She flinched away, a little, because he was hardly more than a stranger and he’d sort of charged at her and was now, well, just looming over her. He cleared his throat and avoided her gaze, heat brushing up his back. He couldn’t change their uncomfortable proximity, not without risking all three of them being spotted and shot, so he leaned in toward Tess’s instructive whispers, and tried to focus.

She followed his lead and he felt an unfortunate prickle of pride and relief. He set his jaw against it and took a deep breath to ease the furious, familiar tightness in his chest.

Tess slipped forward and the kid followed. He took a moment to himself, shaking his head clear and the feeling away, fingers curling into the concrete as he pressed himself back into a single-minded smuggler. If he couldn’t keep his conviction sharp, they weren’t long for this world.

-

The second time, it was Tess’s fault.

It was at most two hours later and now they’d spent most of their time together on the move. The kid was keeping it together, hanging on Tess’s every word, and he was both miffed and impressed, though he was struggling to drown the latter. His job was to keep his attention firm and directed, to take care of things as Tess planned, always the muscle to her might. It was a routine that he was fond of and it had served them well in their shared time.

In this instance, however, there was a flaw.

They were now underground, in a mall darker than sin, surrounded by Clickers, and he was leading the way through, armed with a single shiv. The kid had been instructed to stick right on his heels, copy his every move as he did it, in a concentrated effort to slink through the infestation undetected and alive. To her credit, she’d done exactly that, trailing barely a breath behind him, crouched nearly flat against the wall. They’d made it halfway across and rounded two corners in perfection and he was ready for the rest of it to be over.

He checked the corner once, clear, forewent the second look, turned and found himself face to face with the Clicker that had appeared from the opposing corner. It was get bit or rotate back quick, and the kid was there, so what else could he do but tuck her under him, keeping himself between her and it?

His flashlight, strapped to his shoulder, shone right on her face, but she didn’t react to it. In fact, she didn’t react to him at all. Her gaze never left the Clicker. They held their breath together as it shuffled past them, his teeth gritted, heart in his throat.

It was over in less than a minute. She let out a soft exhale as the Clicker disappeared and he watched the tension ease from her shoulders. There was moment, everything was still, and a soft thought crossed his mind—she glanced over at him and started, tightening all over again. He turned away, checked the corner, once, twice, three times and took it, shoving everything else aside.

They made it through without any more incidents, but there was a charge to the air that he failed to remove.

-

The third time, it was self-preservation.

Dawn had broken. Red sunlight filtered across the battered museum through the shattered and battened windows, and there had been a high-pitched thread of anxiety splitting his head since he’d been separated from the two of them. He arrived to see Tess holding her own, but the kid—she was across the room, struggling to keep a runner from latching on.

The revolver was in his hand. He was moving. He squeezed one, two, _click._ An idiot, he’d forgotten to reload. The runner dropped and so did a second, shuffling up behind her. There was a third, because there was always a third, but he had a wood plank. He smashed it across its face and they both splintered.

She was saying something he didn’t catch over the groans of the infected and he took her arm, tugging her behind the case and down. Tess was also saying things that he couldn’t listen to, but he at least got the gist—get down, more incoming. His reload was efficient and so was the execution when he fired over the cover. Six bullets, six bodies. Tess took out three herself, still back in the doorway.

Then it was finished, and he realized what he’d done.

She was pressed between him and the display, nervous gaze fixed on Tess, broken bottle in hand. He called the all clear and turned away as he stood, quelling his shaking hands with another reload.

It was all too dangerous. If they were going to make it, he had to stay fixed on the end, empty of everything but the goal. Counting bullets usually worked for him. There was always less than he’d like, a good reminder that the end is closer than expected, and he focused on that, drowning the warmth rising in his sternum with absolute concentration.

He took a breath. Released it. And they kept moving.

-

The fourth time, she did it, god damn it.

Everything was already a mess. They’d known each other for so little time, but all of it a waste of his. The fireflies had been killed, soldiers were roaming the building, and Tess—he clenched his jaw. His knuckles were white around the rifle.

They’d been lucky to find it and he lined a soldier up in the sight, mostly hidden behind the wooden crate. It was a clean shot, but the crack of his gun was echoed immediately, and bullets ricocheted into the box, splinters flying. She scrambled back from the edge until she bumped into his chest and stilled. His second shot went wide.

Well, shit.

There’d been a handful of extra rounds with the gun, because chance was on their side, and he ducked down to reload, huddled over her. There were only three other guys, currently, and the shooting quieted for a moment as they moved around and called for back-up. He needed to make this fast. She was watching the corner of their box, expression tough, blade in hand.

He bit his tongue to keep the _it’s okay_ from slipping out. He felt tight, trapped, everything all taut and furrowed, clenched to keep that traitor beating in his chest in check. There was only one thing to do.

He got up and he made it fast.

-

The fifth time, it would be the last, he swore.

It’d been maybe an hour since Tess. He’d gotten blood on his hands since then and hollowed out. He was beginning to feel more like himself—the self he’d been for the past twenty years, anyway.

He could barely see through the gas mask and haze of spores in the air. There were soldiers just ahead, always and again, overly obsessed with hunting Fireflies. The kid was around somewhere, he knew, smart enough to stay close. He moved to the end of the cover, trying to ascertain solider locations based on the lights cutting through the mist of infection.

There was a tickle on his neck. He glanced down and there she was. Her face was just as surprised as he was, clear of a mask, and they stared at each for a longer moment than he would have liked. There were questions in his mouth, and he chose them over the unwilling emotion that lumped in his throat. That one, he had to keep stomping down if they wanted to get out of this alive.

It was just circumstance that they fit that way. It meant nothing.

He barely heard her response, teeth gritted around the swallow, and he forced himself to look up for the soldiers. He really couldn’t see shit, but the light that flashed across his face before turning away said that they couldn’t either—and that one of them was right fucking there.

He moved forward and strangled every guy he could find until all the lights were out.

-

The sixth time, he decided to embrace it.

It had been almost two days since the last incident. They’d made it to Bill’s and, by some miracle, he’d agreed to help instead of just shooting them on sight. He’d managed to throw up a sort of professional distance, encouraged by Bill’s distrustful take on her, and packed his emotions away once more. There’d been a few close calls, of course, fueled by panic and her damn open heart, but he’d fucking managed. He knew they’d only make it as long as he did.

Of course, it was all over now, anyway, wasn’t it? They had no car battery, let alone a car, and no way to get either; they were dangerously low on ammo—he’d hadn’t had much to begin with and he’d had to use most of it just to get into the school; and now they were trapped in the gymnasium, a horde outside and a bloater in. Their window, and his throat, was closing.

She threw herself behind cover as the bloater burst through and he followed, letting go of his own instinct and listening only to the _protect her this time_ that flushed up his back, across his chest, down his arms, up his throat, tingling in his fingers and pricking at his mouth, cheeks, eyes. It was all for her, it had all always been for her, and who was he to think he could fight it?

_That’s the panic talking_. The position was purely logical. There was only so much cover, so it made sense to get close, to curl over her, to tuck her under his arm and shield her from all the goddamn exploding pus. Keeping her alive was in his best interest after all, so this was a rational move—not at all an emotional one.

She flinched into him, away from the more protective crate, the top of her head brushing his chin, and suddenly he wasn’t very good at convincing himself.

He’d spent twenty years becoming the man that doesn’t care, the man that doesn’t feel and barely thinks, the man who’d rather ignore horrors than stop them, the man who’d rather pull the trigger than consider his own humanity for even a second. That was who he had to become to survive. That was who he’d wanted to become to kill himself.

Things were unraveling fast.

Bill was yelling at him, gunshots ringing in his ears; the bloater was lumbering ever closer, flakes of infection peeling off and choking the air; and she was just looking at him, safe under his arm, waiting, trusting.

How was it that he could be so wrong, for so long, and only now be realizing it? This action, this protectiveness—he’d been pretending it wasn’t true, that it didn’t mean anything, but in reality, this is who he was, who he needed to be, and if he kept trying to bury it, it was going to kill them both. And he really, really, needed to be the man that kept her breathing.

He had two shotgun shells left. He leaned over her a little more, setting the gun against the top of the crate and keeping her wedged firmly under his chest. She fit there without complaint. He blasted off an arm and the face. They were all splattered with guts, but the warmth that trickled down from the crown of his head had a kinder source. He wanted to laugh.

He could do this. He could save her. He could let her save him.

**Author's Note:**

> With The Last of Us Part II finally so close to release (forbidding another delay, fingers crossed), I thought it'd be a good time to dive back into TLOU feels (and, uh, there are a lot). One of the things I noticed when I first played was the way Ellie and Joel fit together when you're taking cover and replaying it just highlighted that all over again. So a look at Joel's attempts to stave off the protectiveness seemed necessary. Okay, thanks.


End file.
